


Unstoppable Force, Meet Immovable Object

by SilverDragon00



Series: Oliver Scott 'Verse [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Gen, POV Multiple, Parent!lock, Post-Reichenbach, Sequel, Time Skips, canon-divergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-21 05:31:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11937342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverDragon00/pseuds/SilverDragon00
Summary: Sequel to "Where you Can't Quite Reach"Sherlock is back.The fragile life John built for him and Oliver begins to crumble.





	1. SHERLOCK HOLMES

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to part two of the Oliver Scott 'Verse!
> 
> If you are a returning reader, I'm so glad you're back and I really hope you enjoy the first chapter.
> 
> If you are a new reader, please go back and read the first part in this series for this to make sense. :)
> 
> Please enjoy!!

Sherlock fought the itch to jump up and wrap his arms around his best friend as he lay still on the cold concrete of the sidewalk. He knew the fake suicide would hurt his friend, but he hadn’t imagined how much more it would hurt himself to hear John cry out for him, rough fingers wrapping around his wrist to check for a pulse. Sherlock knew the ball lodged against the artery under his arm had temporarily stopped the pulse, but a tiny part of him wanted John to feel it anyways.

He listened carefully as someone pulled John away and kept his body limp while the paramedics lifted him onto the stretcher. John’s voiced faded out behind him as the gurney rushed into the hospital. None of these doctors knew, and there were a few moments of limbo before he heard a door shut and everything went quiet.

“I can’t believe you put him through that, Sherlock.” Molly whispered.

Sherlock opened his eyes and pulled the ball out from under his numb arm. He slid off the gurney. “I had to,” Sherlock said, meeting her eyes. She looked sad. He reached out and took her hand, hoping it to be a reassuring gesture. “Thank you.”

Molly looked away and pulled her hand from his. “How long are you going to keep this act up? I know you heard John out there. What of your parents? Your brother?”

Sherlock moved away from her, letting the logical part of his brain put away the emotional side, like it had been trained to do. He pulled off his coat and put it on the table next to them, then worked on his shoes. “They’ll manage. Hurry, we don’t have much time. Retrieve the cadaver, we’ll start dressing it.”

Molly didn’t move for a moment, then he heard her sigh - a soft, defeated sound - before she left the room. She came back, with a body under a sheet, locking the door behind her. Sherlock finished striping and pulled on the clothes Molly found for him. He’d be eternally grateful to her and the twenty something men and women in his homeless network that helped him pull this off. Really, she’d be the only one with the burden of keeping his secret from everyone, even his brother. He trusted her, and knew she could do it.

They finished everything they needed to do, and Molly (albeit reluctantly) promised she’d take care of what needed to be done. Sherlock had full confidence that she would.

* * *

It took Sherlock a long, draining fortnight to get to where he needed to be in East Russia. He knew where the main bases of operation for the people working under Moriarty were, and he had a plan to take them out. In the time it took him to get started under a masked identity, he caught wind of people working for his brother already dismantling the web. He used them as cover.

Working around Mycroft’s people and through a series of others, he began his mission. Often to stay out of the limelight he had to disappear for a few day at a time, or put a pause on the people and operations he was hunting. Despite his intentions, his nature drew him to solving cases as far on the down low as he could manage. He had to be careful, but his addiction to puzzling crimes won him over sometimes.

Time passed when Sherlock became consumed in his work - lots of time. He wanted to go home, but knew he couldn’t until his job finished. He had people to take down, places to find and plots to unravel. Cases he took sometimes ended up dangerous and bloody. Others connected to the vast kingdom Moriarty had created for himself. More than once Sherlock had narrowly escaped capture or recognition.

It took months. Time flew by without him noticing, because the work always ended up slow but busy. Often, he found himself collapsing in sketchy alleys or on the sofas of the few people he met and could trust. He forgot to eat or couldn’t find food sometimes, and on days like those he had to fight off images of a crackling fire and two armchairs. He couldn’t let himself think. He had to push through everything - then maybe he could return home.

One a particularly bad night, when his stomach had knotted itself and one of his lips had burst in a fight, he lay curled up and hidden in behind a rundown building, a tarp thrown over his head the only shield from the rain. Everything hurt and he was tired, and somehow the broken phone he stole still worked and he found himself on John’s blog. It hadn’t been updated in months, and though Sherlock knew it never would be again, that pesky emotional side of himself wanted to read in that familiar voice once more - just to hear John in his head.

Months, and long, deadly months later Sherlock found himself hot on an organization's trail to Germany. His heart pounded as he hid in the back of a cargo truck for hours, knowing that Moriarty’s people had almost come undone. The bits of the crime group left in Russia had just about been taken out by Mycroft’s people and if had stayed there longer, some of those men might be suspicious as to who else was helping. He heard there were a few people based out of Germany, and he hoped that if he could take them out quick enough, he might get home by the end of the year without anyone catching onto him (even if it was a year longer than he wanted o stay). But it was getting riskier.

Sherlock desperately wanted to go home, but as that option seemed to approach him, he started to realize he may not be welcome. It didn’t matter. He had to stay focused.

Until he messed up. Exhausted, he sloppily took out a target and left too much evidence behind - soon after it became obvious that Mycroft and his men were onto Sherlock. He had to be more careful, one more slip up and he’d be caught. Sherlock was sure Mycroft didn’t know it was him yet. He’d have to finished up quickly and get out of Germany soon.

It took a few more months than he had expected, but when he felt satisfied that he’d done what he could, he started making his way farther west.

Crossing into Belgium is where Mycroft caught him. Whoever Mycroft had been expecting, it obviously wasn’t Sherlock. He couldn’t recall a single other time that Mycroft had been rendered speechless. Sherlock’s instincts told him to run, that Mycroft hadn’t recognized him in his ratty appearance; but his mind told him  _ stay _ .  _ It’s over now _ . 

For the first time in a very, very long time, his brother pulled him into a hug and Sherlock accepted it, letting his tired body collapse and for the first time in two years, allowing someone else to hold his weight. His hair was too long and greasy, covered in dirt and he hadn’t eaten in days but it’s one of the few times in his life he’s relieved to let that someone else take care of him for a little while.

After a while, his brother let go of him, but Sherlock could feel the reluctance in his loosened grip.

Mycroft put them both on a private flight back to the UK, and toward the end of it, Sherlock found his voice and inquired about their parents. They flew over the dreary grey city that Sherlock found comfort in seeing again, and Mycroft expertly avoided his question and almost perfectly deduced how he faked the suicide and where he’d been.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” Mycroft asked in a softer voice than Sherlock had ever heard.

Sherlock stared out the window as they neared the airport. “Brilliant,” he murmured.

They didn’t speak while Mycroft brought Sherlock to one of his many tiny flats scattered about the country. Sherlock thoroughly enjoyed his first hot shower in months, and took extra care in washing all the grime and dirt out of his long hair, tugging his fingers through the knots and relishing in the feeling of the burning water. When he finished and left the shower, he leaned over the sink and shaved off his beard and cut his hair. It fell a little longer than his usual cut, but he was too tired to keep going.

Mycroft brought someone in to address Sherlock’s injuries (which were more than he expected them to be). A finger on his left hand that healed wrong had to be reset, the wrist on the same hand had a sprain, an infected cut on his leg from trying to stitch it himself, multiple half healed whip marks on his back from being caught a few weeks back. That had been a tricky one to escape. Bruises and random little scars decorated all of his skin.

Hours after returning to London, Sherlock sat across from Mycroft at a small table, eating the first proper meal he’d had in months. It’s quiet, they both have questions, and they both know there are things to do and people Sherlock needed to talk to.

Sherlock settled on the one question they both know he would ask sooner or later. “John?”

Mycroft looked away, Sherlock’s heart sank and his mind went into overdrive, outlining every possibility of anything that could have gone wrong and where he could be and what -

“John’s fine,” Mycroft interrupted his thoughts because he  _ knew _ how Sherlock’s mind spiraled. By the way he said it, Sherlock knew there was more but his brother had always been better at keeping things from him. “We’re going to see our parents first; tomorrow.”

* * *

Violet sobbed and Sigar wouldn’t meet Sherlock’s eye while he swallowed his pride and sat across from them at a table, apologizing and explaining everything, and answering their questions. When his mother eventually did stop crying, she held him for a very long time. His father did the same.

He was at the estate for a few hours due to Mycroft not-so-subtly telling him that he owed his parents the time. Sherlock’s mind started to wander while he’s forced to stay there, and all the talking was giving him a headache so he got up to walk around the house alone for a while. He passed his old room, then Mycroft’s, and paused when he reached the boy’s. It hadn’t occurred to him, but he hadn’t seen Oliver anywhere in the house yet, nor any traces that he’d been there in a while. He nudged the door open, and looked around at the obvious missing things. Sherlock didn’t go in, he’d never felt welcome in the room, but he could see the missing clothing and books.

Sherlock made his way back down the stairs and paused in the doorway of one of the drawing rooms, his hand resting on the frame. “Where’s Oliver?”

His parents and Mycroft looked up, an awkward pause lingering in the air. In those few seconds, Sherlock realized exactly where Oliver was. The one place Sherlock wanted to be right now - with the one person he wanted to be with.

Mycroft must have seen it in his face, because he said, “Sherlock, now is not the time. Neither of them are ready to see you. You can’t show up out of the blue.”

Sherlock dug his nails into the doorframe. “I have to. I want to see John.”

Mycroft stood up. “You have no idea what that will do to him. You don’t know what it was like after you left.”

“John is strong.”

“Sherlock.”

“Fine!” Sherlock snapped. He wasn’t a child.

But he snuck out the next day.

He made it to Baker Street, hoping John still lived there, because he had no idea where the man would be. Reaching out to take the door handle, he noticed a tremor in his hand and opened and closed his fist a few times before pushing the door open. The light from Mrs Hudson’s flat was off, and a note he didn’t bother reading was taped to the door. She must be out. He crept up the stairs quietly, avoiding the creaking fifth step and the loose banister.

The door to 221B was locked and the lights were off - nobody was home. Sherlock moved the mat on the ground with his foot, then ran his fingers along the edge of the door frame, looking for a key. The phone Mycroft gave him started ringing, and he put his hand in his pocket and silenced it. His fingers slid down the wallpaper next to the door until he found a bump and a tear in the paper. He pulled the key out and unlocked the flat door, then closed it behind him.

He flicked the light on and thoughts and observations flooded his senses. He blinked them all away in favor of a tight pain at the back of his throat that tasted a lot like nostalgia and regret.

At first glance not much had changed, but the longer he took everything in, the more apparent it became how much actually did change. Aside from a book or two, most of Sherlock’s things were gone - which he expected. New books populated the shelves, different random little objects sat upon once busy surfaces. The ever-present newspaper clippings and case notes were gone from the walls. Everything looked neater yet still well inhabited. It still had that familiar smell of home though - one that made his chest feel tight.

His worn leather armchair still sat proudly by the fireplace but had been pushed back towards the window. It somehow managed to look filled though empty. The desk between the windows looked significantly cleaner than he was used to, a laptop closed on one side and a thick notebook with pencils scattered across the cover on the other. The curtains he remembered to be a dusty brown were replaced by a soft cream. Those too-dim lightbulbs had finally been changed. A beautiful drawing of the armchairs in front of the fireplace had been pinned above the sofa at the back of the room, next to an incredible painting of a beach at night.

A half-solved rubik’s cube sat on the mantle, it looked like it hadn’t been touched in awhile. Above it, next to the mirror he avoided looking into, were pictures. He recognized Oliver in the first one, though he hadn’t seen the child in more than a few years. The boy was sitting in front of a window, bulky headphones on, drawing in a notebook while snow gently fell out the window. Another, silly photo, of the boy posed mid-dance move, his head thrown back and pretending to hold a microphone. Sherlock’s throat tightened when his eyes moved up to the next one; John grinning up at whoever had taken the photo from the table he sat at, a party setting behind him. A few more scattered the wall next to those, one of Mrs Hudson covered in flower and Oliver holding an empty bag with a look of shock on his face. Another of John standing next to an attractive woman with similar features who must be his sister. He wondered why he had never bothered to meet her.

Sherlock tore his eyes away from the photos, and his feet moved him towards the stairs that would bring him to John’s room. The third stair still creaked and the bedroom door still had the rusty hinge Sherlock heard when he pressed his palm to the wood and the door swung open slowly. The room looked almost the same. The bedspread, once green, now a muted red. The curtains matched the ones in the sitting room, and the empty surfaces now had books and other trinkets. More pictures hung on the wall that Sherlock didn’t look at. His violin case peeking out from under John’s bureau made his chest heavy and he retreated out of the room, not touching anything.

The kitchen - cluttered with normal kitchen things instead of science equipment or half-finished experiments. Regular food inhabited the fridge instead of occasional body parts and Sherlock couldn’t find mold in any of the cabinets. He wondered if John checked regularly to make sure none ever grew. He made his way down the hallway and lightly pushed open the door to his old room, knowing it now belonged to someone else but the sight still made him somewhat sombre. He knew very little about the boy’s interests, but knew it belonged to Oliver because that’s what made sense.

Sherlock walked back into the sitting room, unsure what to do and feeling like a stranger in a place he once called home. The downstairs door opened and he stiffened. The urge to run overwhelmed him, but he fought it and took a breath when he heard two muffled voices then laughter come from the floor below.  _ I shouldn’t be nervous. I’m Sherlock Holmes. _ He shut his eyes for a moment, willing the tremor in his hands to stop.

The door behind him creaked open.


	2. JOHN WATSON

_ There he stood. Sherlock Holmes. _

The man spun around, eyes widening. They both stood frozen, staring at each other. John couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe. He just stared into those endless blue eyes that couldn’t be real, until a creak on the stair behind him jolted him out of trance trance.

Oliver.

John swung his arm behind himself, not taking his eyes of Sherlock’s face. His palm thumped into Oliver’s chest, stopping the boy from looking into the flat.

“Wha-”

“Go outside,” John interrupted him. He watched as Sherlock’s eyes flicked away from his own and towards the doorway. John pushed Oliver back. “Mycroft’s sent a car, go outside and wait for it.”

“John-”

“Go.” John tore his gaze from Sherlock and looked over his shoulder at Oliver, his face stony and serious. Oliver’s mouth snapped shut and he nodded, then turned to walk back down the stairs. John watched him go, waiting to hear the front door open and close, before taking a breath, steeling himself.

He stepped fully into the flat and pulled the door shut behind him. They stared at each other for another few moments. John’s brain did a funny thing, dividing itself completely between wanting to launch across the room and punch Sherlock in the face or hug him and never let go again. So far the punching option was looking a lot more tempting. He became aware of his heart thudding, and an emotion crawling up his spine. A bitter sense of unsettling relief that felt a lot like betrayal.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked away first, scanning over John’s body - no doubt deciding where he’d just been, what he ate for breakfast and when the last time he’d called Harry. John took the moment to look Sherlock over, too. The man had always been thin - but now he looked thin in a different way. His pale skin had smudges under his eyes, making his face look hollow and sharper. His hair, still dark, but a little longer. A bruise stood out just below his jaw and his left wrist had a splint on it. He wore dark jeans, something John had only seen him in a handful of times, and a grey untucked button down - just as mussed as the rest of his appearance.

“You look well,” Sherlock said, his voice a little raw. John didn’t respond, trying to quell his rising anger; hot in the back of his throat. The only thing he could think -  _ not dead, not dead, not dead.  _ Sherlock opened his mouth to speak again, but John interrupted him in a low voice.

“Where the hell have you been?”

Sherlock closed his mouth and turned his head away from John. John watched as a wall fell into place behind Sherlock’s eyes and his face turned into the unemotional front John knew how to see right through. It was the same wall Oliver tried to put up when he became upset.

“I had to fake it -” Sherlock stuttered. “I had to. To protect those I care for, clear my name, and continue my work against Moriarty. Certain people had to believe I killed myself.”

“You didn’t have to lie to  _ me _ !” John shouted, giving into his anger. “I mourned you! For months!”

“It wouldn’t have worked otherwise,” Sherlock insisted, his hands curling and voice becoming tight. John could see him on the verge of breaking down and the mostly crushed part of his mind still wanted to hug the man, his heart tugging madly towards him, but John’s still too angry. He couldn’t believe that Sherlock was capable of lying to this extent. About  _ suicide _ . For  _ years _ . Or maybe he could believe it. All those times in the first few months after Sherlock jumped, wishing Sherlock would come back. Sobbing into his sheets at night, begging the man to return from the impossibility of mortality and he  _ could have. He could have come back. _

His conversation with Oliver from weeks ago, about that awful word, the one he could never say, the one he could never think, came back out of the blue and he physically felt the last few threads in his heart  _ snap _ , and with them, his emotional control.

John stepped back, ready to leave the flat; the same moment his hand landed on the door handle behind him, he watched Sherlock’s wall crumble. He broke down, stepping towards John and reaching out, like he wanted to grab him, “John - please -” a crack in his voice ended the plea, and John shook his head.

He’s sure he might throw up, or cry, or punch Sherlock, so he ran from the flat. Oliver’s not outside, so he hoped to God that Mycroft’s car picked him up. John didn’t know where to go, it’s night, and somehow he found himself standing outside Greg’s house, knocking on the door just as it started to rain.

The door opened a moment later, and John’s hugging his arms to himself, head ducked as the cold rain dripped down the back of his shirt.

“John!” Greg’s brows rose in surprise. “Jesus, get in here.” He pulled John inside by the arm and thunder cracked behind them when the door clicked shut. “Are you all right?”

John shook his head. “I -” he sighed. “Can I stay here for the night? Just this once, I wouldn’t be much trouble.”

John could see the confusion written across Greg’s face. Greg knew John well enough now, that for him to reach out for help it meant something happened that he didn’t want to be alone for. The man nodded, “Yeah, yeah of course. Here, take your shoes off, I’ll get you a dry shirt.”

He kicked off his shoes and followed Greg farther inside. Once he had a clean t-shirt on, Greg offered him a mug of tea in the kitchen, looking like he had more questions than he wanted to overwhelm John with.

“Where’s Oliver?”

John took a sip of the tea. “With Mycroft.”

Greg managed to keep quiet for a few minutes. John drank half his tea, listening to the rain hit the window and the occasional roll of thunder in the distance. The light above the table he sat at flickered and John couldn’t focus his mind on any single thing besides the bounce in his leg and how raw his throat felt. A flash of lightning lit up the sky in the distance.

“What’s going on?” Greg finally asked.

John took a breath, the air feeling thick as it filled his lungs and he looked at his distorted reflection in the dark tea, his hair mussed from running his fingers through it over and over. He answered a moment later, the words falling flat from his mouth. 

“Sherlock’s not dead.”

A thick, nasty silence settled between them, reaching all the corners of the room and trying to swallow John whole with it’s weight. It broke after a moment when Greg said, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

John shook his head, feeling the backs of his eyes twinge. Damn it. He put his mug on the table and leaned his elbows on the surface, pressing his palms into his eyes. Damn that man. Damn Sherlock Holmes. He’d never felt such hollowness. It hurt more than loss - it dug deep into his soul, this sharp feeling of betrayal, a hot knife into his chest making his insides feel knotted up. The balance his life had found, a delicate stone resting atop a point - it crumbled away, leaving a sea of raw emotion to tide over his heart and mind. John welcomed the bitter pain, wanting it to hurt because he should have known better.

“Where is he now?” Greg’s voice sounded odd.

John dropped his hands from his face and looked up. Greg swayed on his feet, his face a mix of confusion, hurt and maybe a bit of relief.

John shook his head. “I left him at the flat. I don’t know if he stayed there.”

Greg stepped around the table and put a hand on John’s shoulder, the weight yanking John’s mind to a sharp halt and he took a breath that had been stuck in his throat since he walked away from Baker Street.

“You can stay here as long as you need,” Greg told him.

“Thank you,” John relaxed, feeling the rush of emotions slow down, giving him a moment of peace amongst the cloud of dark thoughts.

* * *

John didn’t sleep. Instead, he lay in the dark at one in the morning on Greg’s worn-out couch, letting hot silent tears leak from his eyes and trail off his face. He didn’t sob, or gasp for breath, or really cry at all. He just let the tears fall gently to his skin like the rain that trickled down the window across from him.

Greg woke him up in the morning, and it looked like he was lucky enough to get more sleep than John did. John rubbed at his face, knowing he had less than two hours of unstable slumber.

“I have to get to work,” Greg said. “Help yourself to whatever, and - hey - call me if you need anything at all. All right?”

John nodded, recognizing this request from years ago. One that he ignored then but wouldn’t now. Once Greg left in a flurry, John checked the time. There’s no way he’d make it into work today - he felt awful and there wasn’t a chance he’d be able to focus.

He found his almost dead phone wedged between two of the couch cushions and pressed the button to turn on the screen. Two missed calls from Mycroft, sixteen texts and thirty-three missed calls from Oliver, and a text from an unknown number. John deleted the unknown number text without looking at it, then called out of work. He read through some of Oliver’s texts - most of them were the boy asking what was going on, why he had to go back to the Holmes’ estate, if John was okay because nobody would tell him anything, and one that said if John didn’t call him back, he’d sneak out and take a cab back to London.

A tiny smile snuck onto his face despite everything. He called Oliver; keeping the boy waiting would just make his curiosity worse. Oliver answered immediately with “Mycroft told me.” His voice sounded forced.

“Are you okay?” John asked.

A pause. “I’m angry. At Sherlock.”

John sighed.

“Where are you?” Oliver asked. “Where’s Sherlock? Are you both at the flat? No, I doubt you would stay. What’s happening? Can I come home soon?”

“I - I don’t know where Sherlock is,” John said. “I spent the night at Greg’s house.”

“When can I come home?”

John tugged his lip between his teeth and tapped his finger absently against the phone. “I need you to be a little patient, okay? Can you just hold on for a little bit?”

Oliver made a displeased noise but said, “Okay. I’ll try.”

“I have to go now,” John said. “Talk with your grandparents, I’m sure they need it.”

“All right. Bye, John.”

John said good bye, then dropped the phone next to himself and rubbed his eyes. They hurt, he was so tired. There went months of progress fixing his insomnia. He stood up from the couch and use the rest of the coffee Greg had left in the pot, drinking it black then splashing water from the kitchen sink onto his face, trying to wake up. After a few minutes of sitting at the kitchen table, bouncing his leg up and down, he texted Mycroft.

_ Where is he? _

The response came almost immediately;  _ I have him _ .

John rubbed a hand down his face again. The uncontrolled hurricane of emotions from the night before had settled into a dull roar he easily pushed to the back of his mind, finally able to  _ think _ . That bit anger still sat in his stomach, but his mind had other ideas and knew what it wanted. John messaged Mycroft back.

_ I’ll meet him at Baker Street in an hour. _

He cleaned the mug he had used for coffee and folded the blanket on the couch, retrieved his t-shirt from the dryer and changed into it before pulling on his shoes. Making sure to lock Greg’s front door, he walked home and stepped into the flat feeling unsettled. John took a swift shower and changed out of yesterday’s clothes, then stood in the kitchen and leaned against the counter for a while.

Anxiety crept up his stomach, his thoughts growing louder in the prolonged silence. He didn’t hear the front door open, distracted by his train of thought, but heard the stairs creak just before the door to the kitchen pushed open. Sherlock stepped in, looking just as weary as the day before, his face schooled and expressionless.

A moment passed.

John stepped around the table and yanked him forward into a hug. Sherlock’s muscles relaxed underneath John’s arms, and he stumbled back a step before wrapping his own arms around John and pressing his face into John’s neck. John squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers curling into Sherlock’s shirt, feeling his warmth, and Sherlock’s dark hair pressed against his cheek. For a second, everything stopped. His racing thoughts and untamed emotions, resting just for a second so that John could experience the feel of his best friend’s heart pounding next to his own.

“I’m sorry,” A whisper into John’s neck.

John shook his head. “I’m still angry with you.”

“I know.”

“And we need to have a chat where you hopefully give me a better explanation than you did last night.”

Sherlock’s chin dug into John’s shoulder where he nodded. “I know. Just… let me have a few more moments of this.”

John felt a tiny smile slip onto his lips before he had time to allow it. Their problems were only just beginning, this was just a momentary break they both needed. Of quiet breathing and soft heart beats, rumpled shirts and aching arms they deserved just a few moments of peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled with this one a lot, but I hope you guys enjoyed it!
> 
> The next chapter will be out on **Tuesday, September 5th**. I know the updates are a bit weird for this story, but you're getting the chapters much faster than you normally would! :)


	3. OLIVER WATSON

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Apparently today is OTW's 10 anniversary! How fitting that I'm posting a chapter today :)

Oliver kicked off his shoes and followed John up the steps to their flat. He paused when he saw John frozen in the doorway, one of his hands gripping the frame tightly. Oliver moved closer, wondering what he was looking at inside the flat, but the floorboard creaked and John jolted, then swung around, his hand slamming into Oliver’s chest.

“Wha-”

“Go outside,” John interrupted him, not looking away from whatever he saw inside. Oliver felt his heart start to pound. Something was wrong. John’s voice sounded strange. John pushed him a step back. “Mycroft’s sent a car, go outside and wait for it.”

Uncle Mycroft? What did he have to do with this? Oliver’s brows pulled together as he tried to figure out why John was suddenly acting strange. He had been fine the whole night, what changed? “John-”

John spun to look at him. His face had a stoney look to it, but his eyes looked almost… panicked? Oliver swallowed hard.

“Go.” John’s voice was firm and Oliver snapped his mouth shut and nodded. He turned and walked back down the stairs, put on his shoes and opening the front door. He paused, listening for any noise, then bit his lip and left. Confused and a little wounded, he walked a little ways down the street and sat on the kerb.

The recognizable black car rolled up not long after and Oliver got into the backseat, feeling a little disconnected. Oliver leaned his head against the window, recognizing this driver - she'd driven him before. His eyes flicked to look up at the sky out the window. It was going to rain.

A few minutes later a he realized they were headed towards the Holmes’ estate. He frowned and unbuckled, then slid forward in his seat to talk to the driver.

“Why are we going to the estate?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Please put your seatbelt back on.”

“Do you know what’s going on?” Oliver asked. Thunder rolled in the distance.

She sighed. “Mr Holmes just told me to bring you to your grandparent’s estate. Now please sit back.”

Oliver groaned and flopped backwards, yanking his seat belt back on. The rain started, tapping against his window and racing down it. He put his finger on the glass and followed a drop that trailed down to the bottom of the window.

After a few more minutes, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and text John, asking if he was okay. Then another asking what happened. He didn’t get a response, so he texted Mycroft, receiving the same results.

The rest of the ride to the estate felt like the longest car ride in his life. It was dark when the car’s tires rolled over the wet gravel of the driveway. Oliver saw his grandmother standing in the alcove of the front door, shielded from the rain. Did she know what was going on? Did everyone but him know? He hated being young. Nobody  _ told him _ anything, especially when it seemed important like this.

He got out of the car and ran to the door, already soaking from the few seconds of heavy rain. A flash of lightning cracked across the sky and Oliver shivered before his grandmother pulled him into a hug. She looked solemn. 

He always missed her, and hugged her back tightly but he had too many questions, so he pulled away after a second. “What’s going on?”

Violet sighed, her mouth turning up into a soft smile. She brushed his wet hair off his forehead. “Mycroft will explain later,” she said. “But for now, have you eaten anything for dinner?”

Oliver shook his head and followed her inside. The promise of information later on didn’t quench his curiosity. He spammed John’s phone with text messages and unanswered calls until well into the night, when he eventually fell asleep in his old room, feeling left out.

He woke up really early, just barely after the sun’s rays had cracked through his blinds and spilt over the back garden. He changed into some of the old clothes he had left behind. Not much fit him, he had grown a lot in two years, but he found a pair of jeans that didn’t fit to horrendously, and a pullover that used to be big on him.

Oliver crept downstairs, avoid the ones that squeaked and made his way out to the back patio, shutting the glass door behind himself. The sun had finished cresting over the horizon, but thick dewy fog blocked out it’s warmth, the light mist in the air feeling refreshing against his cheeks. The grass glistened with moisture from the rain last night, and Oliver sat on the edge of the cement deck, his bare toes resting in the cold grass.

He ran his hand through his tangled hair a few times, probably making it worse, and turned on his mobile to try and call John again. It went to voicemail and he tried twice more before sighing and rubbing his eyes. Irritated at being kept in the dark, he texted the group message that Emily and Caden were in from their summer project.

The time had only just passed six thirty, so he didn’t know if either of them were awake yet, but Caden responded a few minutes later, asking why he’s awake. Oliver answered honestly with:  _ My dad sent me back to my grandparent’s house and nobody will tell me why. I think something happened. _

Caden took a while to respond, but he did:  _ I’m sure someone will tell you if you’re patient. _

Oliver sighed, brushing his feet against the grass. At least  _ someone _ answered his text message. He didn’t respond to Caden, not wanting to keep him up if he planned on sleeping in. Instead, he just enjoyed the quiet of early morning, the rustle of the soft breeze against the garden plants and birds in the forest. How long he sat there, he didn’t know, but it started to warm up a little bit, the morning fog beginning to clear.

The patio door slid open, starling him from his thoughts. He turned and saw his uncle standing there, managing to look glum and regal at the same time. Oliver stood up to face him, his feet wet from the grass and leaving footprints on the cement. Everyone seemed so  _ off, _ even his uncle now. 

“Jeez, what’s going on? Did someone die?” He attempted.

Mycroft sighed through his nose. “Sherlock is alive.”

The sounds of the morning muted in the background and Oliver’s stomach dropped into his feet. Mycroft said something else, but Oliver didn’t hear him over the rage that washed through his mind like a tsunami. Sherlock must have been at the flat last night; that’s why John stopped him. Oh God, John. How must this have affected him? Why would he send Oliver  _ away _ ?

“Oliver?”

He snapped his head up to look at Mycroft.

“Are you listening?”

Oliver’s brow pulled forward and he swallowed. “Er - no. Sorry. What was that?”

Mycroft kept his expression leveled while he explained, “I found him at the German border a few days ago, and brought him here. We were going to wait to tell you or John, but, as it is with him - he snuck out. He was at Baker Street last night.”

Oliver nodded, his mind still only halfway processing what was being said.

“You’re going to stay here until we can sort everything out,” Mycroft said.

“Where’s John?” Oliver demanded. Fairness evaded the situation. He had every right to know what was going on, and every right to be there for the only person he’d ever thought of as a father. “Do you remember what John was like all that time ago? We’ve come so far, Sherlock’s going to ruin it -”

Mycroft interrupted him. “That’s for John to deal with.”

Oliver rolled his hands into fists at the obvious end to the conversation.

“Now, I have business to attend to - most prominently, my little brother,” Mycroft turned and opened the glass door. “Come inside and make breakfast for your grandparents.”

Oliver didn’t move for a moment, his fingernails digging into his palms, until he distressingly accepted that he couldn’t do anything. He walked inside and Mycroft followed, said goodbye, then left through the front door. Oliver sighed in frustration at being helpless and rooted through the kitchen for something to make.

* * *

When Sigar and Violet woke up, there were omelettes on the table for them, but Oliver sat outside in the garden. The moist fog from earlier had cleared and the damp grass had mostly dried, the sun comforting and warm. He sat in the grass near a flower bed and picked a flower, then tore off all the petals and squashed the rest between his fingers.

His phone rang in his pocket and he started, scrambling to yank it out, almost dropping it, then putting it to his ear and answering, knowing it was John on the other end. “Mycroft told me,” he said before John could speak. A new crash of anger towards Sherlock fell over him. Who the hell did he think he was, disappearing for two years? Making the people who cared about him think he had killed himself? Did he know how much it had hurt Violet and Sigar, or John and Mycroft?

John’s voice came through, sounding tired. “Are you okay?”

Oliver paused.  _ Am I okay? _ Shouldn’t Oliver be the one asking that to John? “I’m - I’m angry. At Sherlock.”

John didn’t say anything, so Oliver continued. “Where are you? Where’s Sherlock? Are you both at the flat? No, I doubt you would stay. What’s happening? Can I come home soon?”

“I don’t know where Sherlock is,” John said and Oliver’s stomach twisted at how  _ wrong _ John’s voice sounded. “I spent the night at Greg’s house.”

Oliver bit his lip. “When can I come home?”

John sighed through the speaker. “I need you to be a little patient, okay? Can you just hold on for a little bit?”

He tried not to be irritated, but he groaned anyways. Oliver wanted to help, he wanted to be there for John. “Okay. I’ll try.”

“I have to go now,” John said. “Talk with your grandparents, I’m sure they need it.”

Oliver shut his eyes and held in another sigh. “All right. Bye, John.”

“Bye.” The phone clicked off and Oliver kept it to his ear with his eyes closed for another moment. When he dropped the phone into his lap he felt even more lost and left out than before. How long would he have to wait? He leaned back and fell into the grass, running his fingers through it and plucking some of the blades. He’d go crazy with nothing to do here.

He didn’t keep track of the time as he lay there in the grass, watching the clouds drift across the warm sky. Eventually he grew bored, and went inside an hour or so before noon.

Sigar looked up from his seat at the kitchen table, folding down the corner of the paper. “It’s quite beautiful outside today.”

Oliver shrugged. He checked his phone again. Nothing. He sent John a text, doubtful he would get an answer but wanting to be involved anyways. Even if it was just bugging the man through messages. He found his way to the library and sat in one of the worn out chairs, when his phone beeped. He pulled it back out of his pocket quickly, hoping it was John.

It wasn’t. He frowned, but opened Emily’s text anyways.  _ Are you okay? _ Oliver forget he had sent what had happened in their group chat. He typed back:  _ Bored _ . Then put his phone on the lamp table next to him and picked out a book to read until his grandmother called him for lunch.

The day dragged on slowly. He didn’t have a sketchbook here, because he usually would bring his old one along. He couldn’t practice with his guitar, or go to the park, or see either of his friends. If he had his rubik’s cube, then one he hadn’t touched in nearly a month, he’d be using that instead of twisting his fingers in his hair every few seconds. He got up and paced around every once in awhile, antsy to have something to do. 

He shook his hands out and tugged them through his hair again as he paced across the sitting room.

“Your lovely hair is going to fall out if you keep that up,” Violet said, not looking up from her book.

Oliver groaned. “I’m so  _ bored! _ This is awful, I need to know what’s going on, I want to be back in London!”

She looked at him over the top of her reading glasses. “Patience, love.”

Oliver gripped at his hair again and tilted his head back. “Ugh, I’m going outside.”

He stomped away and yanked open the back door, then slammed it shut. He jammed his hands in his pocket and walked around the grounds with as much ferocity as he could manage, until he realized it was doing him no good.

At dinner he pushed his carrots around with his fork, his cheek resting in his hand and he elbow on the table - not hungry.

Violet cleared her throat. “Mycroft told us you’ve made a couple of friends,” she prompted.

Oliver dropped his fork and sat back in his chair. “Mycroft should mind his business.”

“Oliver,” His grandmother scolded.

He sighed and pushed away from the table. “I’m going to bed early. Goodnight.”

He heard both his grandparents murmur to each other as he left the dining room, walked up the stairs and shut his bedroom door behind him. It hadn’t quite hit eight in the evening yet, but he stripped off his shirt and jeans and fell onto his bed, then checked his phone again.

To his surprise, a message lit up the screen. He must have missed the alert somehow. He unlocked his phone, leaning up on his elbows, and felt his heart leap into his throat when he saw it was from John. It simply read: 

_ Tomorrow. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need your guys help real quick, so please read this!!
> 
> In the next chapter there's a scene with a lot of spoken French in it (yes, I shamelessly use Google Translate for it).
> 
> I need to know if you prefer to read the dialogue in French and have the translation of the scene in the notes at the end of the chapter, OR if you'd prefer to read it in _italicized English, like this._
> 
> I'm asking this time because before when there was French, it was only a line or two, but the scene in the next chapter has a lot. Let me know in the comments!!!
> 
> (Also the next chapter will be out on the 8th!)


	4. BAKER STREET

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is the final chapter in this work. Don't worry! There's a third part to this series, but more about that at the end of the chapter.
> 
>  
> 
> PLEASE REMEMBER: There is a scene in this chapter that has a lot of French in it. Instead of writing it all out in French, it's in _**bold italics like this**_. It's in bold and italics because it wasn't obvious enough when I proof-read it when it was only italics.
> 
> Enjoy!

After pulling apart from the hug, John and Sherlock sat across from each other at the kitchen table. Sherlock spoke, John listened. He still felt angry, and he would for a while but he patiently listened to Sherlock explain where he’d been and why it had taken so long. At the end of his somewhat broken and scattered explanation, they both sat silently for a moment.

John tried to roll over what he’d learned. There were obvious pieces to the puzzle missing, and he didn’t know if Sherlock left them out intentionally or accidentally. He knew it was Sherlock’s call towards danger that kept him out there. Sherlock could have come home at anytime, but the man’s stubbornness to finish the job kept him away.

“I wouldn’t change what I did,” Sherlock said, voice low. He looked down at the table. “But I did regret it everyday while I was out there.”

John didn’t know what to say to that. He didn’t know what to say to _Sherlock_ . When had that happened? When had he forgotten how to talk to his _best friend?_ Another impact of his absence. John scratched his nail against the table. A moment passed.

Sherlock’s hand crept into John’s vision, and two pale fingers tugged at the cuff of his sleeve, begging for a reaction. “I missed you terribly.”

John pulled his arm away and covered his face with his hands, elbows on the table. There weren’t enough words to express what he felt. The emotions didn’t have names, too fleeting to identify and too raw to grab onto. Of course he missed Sherlock too, _of course he did._ But it still hurt. It _hurt_ when Sherlock was gone, and now he sat there in front of him but it still -

He pulled his hands away from his face and dropped them to the table, looking back at Sherlock, the thick silence dancing around them once more. Neither of them knew what to do, where to go from here.

John’s phone beeped, on the table next to him. His eyes flicked to it and he saw a message from Oliver light up the screen. Sherlock looked at it too, and John flipped the phone face down. Then, with a sinking feeling, he realized Oliver coming to face Sherlock would have a drastic and loud outcome. He sighed. Sherlock’s without a doubt realized that Oliver lived here - there’s evidence everywhere. He supposed it was just another awkward topic they had to talk about as well. Before, Sherlock hadn’t even told John he had a son. Now, Sherlock’s come home to find his son living with his best friend. It must be odd, but they had to talk about it. He didn’t know “the right time” to do it, and frankly he didn’t want to be the mediator.

He was just… tired. But Sherlock sat across from him, fidgeting like he’d never done before, his eyes flicking around the kitchen, looking like he didn’t want to start talking again.

So John did. “Oliver lives he now,” he simply stated. They both knew it. Someone had to say it out loud.

Sherlock nodded. “I gather,” his head turned, looking into the sitting room. “Just over a year?”

“Two years now,” John said. He put his elbow back on the table and leaned his cheek into his palm. “He moved in four-ish months after - after you…” He didn’t know what to call it.

Sherlock saved the sentence. “I can understand the reasons.”

John doubted he ever truly would.

“You know I -” Sherlock cleared his throat. “I’ve never - I don’t know much about him.”

John tilted his head down and smiled. “He made that much clear when we met. I’m afraid he doesn’t like you, really.”

“I figured as much.” Sherlock didn’t seemed too bothered by this information. He shifted a bit in his chair. “Mycroft must have told you, then. About how Oliver came to be, and - and why I never mentioned him.”

John nodded, wondering how much Sherlock would say on the subject. Mycroft’s reasoning for Sherlock never mentioning the child had to be guess work at best. Perhaps Sherlock truly did never think to say anything about it. John didn’t want to know the answer, it didn’t matter anymore. Oliver meant the world to him, and that’s what John cared about.

Before either of them could say more, the door to the landing opened and Mrs Hudson walked in, the usual smile on her face. Sherlock twisted in his chair to look at her and she froze and dropped the bag she carried. Then screamed.

It took close to half an hour to calm her down (she started shouting after her initial shock faded away). They ended up standing in the living room, Mrs Hudson’s arm around Sherlock’s waist while she halfheartedly scolded him. Sherlock looked thoroughly chastised and a little embarrassed while she rambled on and John listened with amusement. She suddenly cut herself off and gasped, looking to John.

“Where’s Ollie? Oh, he’s going to be distraught,” She said, her hand moving up to cover her mouth.

John felt odd talking about Oliver around Sherlock. There were probably a million reasons why but he couldn’t come up with any right off. He avoided looking at Sherlock when he said, “Oliver’s fine, Mrs H, he’s with his grandparents for now.”

She shook her head and looked between the two of them. “There’s going to be shouting when that boy comes back, I just know it. It’d do you three well to sort things out quickly. I don’t want to be kept up into the depths of the night, and the neighbors will start to complain. Sit and talk to each other like adults.”

She scooted off to the kitchen, muttering about Sherlock bringing body parts home and causing hazardous molding again. John shook his head and smiled a bit, listening to the sound of her putting together some lunch. Sometimes she just came upstairs and made a meals for him and Oliver, and neither of them minded. They both knew she got lonely.

John looked towards Sherlock, who again looked lost and uncomfortable in his own home. He didn’t know what to say, and neither did Sherlock. They had so much to talk about, so many things that _needed_  to be said, but John couldn’t find the words. One thing popped into mind, and he went with it. “Where did you stay last night?”

“I slept on Molly’s couch.”

John gaped at him. “Molly? Hooper?”

Sherlock nodded. “She was one of the only people who knew. I needed help in the morgue and I trusted her.

John could feel the hurt rising back up in his chest. “But you couldn’t trust _me_.”

“Of course I could!” Sherlock snapped. “You were a target, don’t you see?”

This was new. How many more things would Sherlock neglect to tell him before the night ended? “A target? You didn’t say anything about that.”

Sherlock shut his eyes and rubbed his face. “Moriarty arranged a sniper to be on Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and you at all times. The only way to recall them was if they saw me jump. I figured Moriarty must have some kind of other recall code, just in case things went wrong, but before I could get anything from him he shot himself in the head. I _had to jump_ , and it had to be believable.”

“How did you know to set it all up before hand?” John asked.

“Because, it made sense that something like this would happen. I knew he wanted me to kill myself, that why he was destroying my image, and I was going to make it look like just that,” Sherlock explained. “I couldn’t tell you beforehand, because the sniper watching you had to believe your reaction. It had to be entirely authentic.”

John sat silently for a moment, thinking over this new information. “And Molly? There wasn’t a sniper on her?”

Sherlock shook his head, looking down at the floor. “I was counting on Moriarty missing her. He hadn’t considered her… important enough.”

They stood in silence for another moment, the clinking of tea cups and Mrs Hudson’s humming coming from the kitchen. Cars passed by outside on the street below, the occasional honk in the distance.

And John laughed. The metaphorical glass that separated them shattered in an instant, and Sherlock choked out a laugh too. It started quiet, then blew into full blown laughs, both of them probably looking insane to poor Mrs Hudson. John could feel his chest tighten, he wanted to cry and scream but all he could do right now was laugh.

“What - what are we - we going to do?” John stuttered out between laughs and gulps of air.

Mrs Hudson stood in the kitchen doorway and asked, “Are you two all right?” Which caused them to laugh even more.

John shook his head and took a deep breath, wiping a hand across his eyes. He didn’t know if they were tears of mirth or hurt, but at this point it was all the same. He didn’t know what to do. Sherlock was here, and that changed _everything_. It uproot his whole life, as Sherlock tended to do, and he didn’t know how to fix it. And Oliver - Oliver would have to come home soon. It would be hard on all of them and John didn’t know what to expect.

Mrs Hudson handed them each something to eat and shuffled back down to her flat. John stood in the kitchen, his back to the sitting room while he pulled apart the sandwich, too lost in thought to really be hungry. When he walked back into the sitting room, he thought Sherlock must be the same, as the untouched food sat on the coffee table and Sherlock at the desk, his fingers soundlessly tapping against the table. They stayed in the somewhat comfortable silence for a while when John sat down in his arm chair.

It would be too easy to pretend nothing happened in two years of separation, but they would both know how much of a lie it was. John broke the silence first.

“We’ll have to figure out where you’re going to sleep.”

Sherlock’s shoulders tightened and he looked up at John. “You _want_ me here?”

“Don’t say stupid things, of course I want you here,” John said, looking away from Sherlock, who looked a little embarrassed. “We’ll figure it out.”

Sherlock’s fingers drummed the surface of the desk again. “I can sleep on the couch tonight, if - if you want me to stay -”

“I want you to stay,” John said abruptly.

Another silent moment passed. John was getting sick of the quiet.

“Oliver won’t be happy,” John said.

“I imagine not.”

Quiet. An image of Greg passed through John’s mind. “There’s other people you need to talk to.”

Sherlock nodded.

Peaceful, John could almost describe it as. Or maybe a calm before the storm. Many storms.

* * *

Not long after, Mycroft came to pick Sherlock up because there were people he needed to talk to, and things he needed to do. Not just apologies or explanations, but there was still business with Moriarty’s organization, and Sherlock had information that Mycroft’s people needed.

John didn’t know how long he’d be gone, but as soon as the man left the building John felt an odd pressure lift from his chest and he took a deep breath. Everything was complicated again, and he didn’t know how to fix it. He ended up walking downstairs to talk with Mrs Hudson for a bit.

“Is Sherlock going to move into your room, then?” She asked, leaned over the sink to wash some dishes.

“Ah - no,” John felt his face warm. “He’s sleeping on the couch tonight, but he can’t stay there.”

“Well, I’m leaving in a few days to visit my sister for a bit, he’s welcome to use my room while I’m gone,” She said, handing him a pot to dry. “Least until you three sort yourselves out.”

“You’re a saint, Mrs H,” John said, giving her a one armed hug.

She waved him away. “Make sure you get Ollie home soon, he’s only going to get worked up the longer you keep him waiting.”

John nodded, wiping down a plate with the towel. He put it in the dish rack. “I know, I’m just not really looking forward to it. Oliver already isn’t very fond of Sherlock.”

“Better to get it over with now,” she said. John hummed in agreement. When he finished helping her with the dishes, he stepped into the hall and text Mycroft, asking if he thinks it’s a good idea to bring Oliver home tomorrow. Mycroft responded saying if that’s what John thought was best, he’d bring Oliver home.

Sherlock wasn’t back home until late in the evening. John heard his feet heavy on the stairs and when the door opened he looked worn out. He lifted his head to meet John’s eyes and John felt an odd sensation jolt through his heart, so he looked away.

“All right?” He asked, pretending to be very interested in his book.

Sherlock sighed and the couch dipped when he sat down on the other end. The silence came back, and John could feel every single inch between them, sitting like strangers on opposite ends of the couch.

John cleared his throat. “Oliver’s going to come back tomorrow before lunch. He doesn’t like being away.”

He’d sent a message to Oliver a little while ago and still hadn’t gotten a response. He hoped it was because Oliver was busy and not because he was upset with John. He looked towards Sherlock, who nodded, his eyes shut and head tilted back. John looked at the dark bruise still under his jaw, his exposed neck, and prominent collarbones where his shirt fell askew.

John snapped his book shut, startling Sherlock, and stood. He grabbed an extra blanket and dropped it on the couch for Sherlock, then walked up to his room without saying anything else. Things were awkward enough, and John was prepared for the little sleep he’d get that night.

* * *

Everything about the next morning felt awkward. John tried to go about his normal routine of coffee (he really needed it today), showering and brushing his teeth. The whole time Sherlock sat on the couch, his elbows on his knees and steepled fingers balancing his chin. He had been awake when John came downstairs, yawning and rubbing at his face. Sherlock looked like he might not have even tried to sleep with the darkening rings around his eyes.

Sherlock obviously didn’t know what to do with himself and John didn’t know what to say. It was just… awkward. And _silent_ ; again with the silence.

John ended up sitting at the kitchen table with his laptop, idly clicking random news sites and not really reading anything other than the headlines. Sherlock had moved to the desk a little while after John offered him breakfast and he declined. John hated this. He hated how broken they felt and how like strangers their relationship had become.

The doorbell rang and John looked up from his laptop and to Sherlock, who still seemed oblivious to the world. John hurried downstairs in time to see Oliver shove the door open. John stepped off the stairs and Oliver bolted forward, pushing John back with the force of his hug. John let out a breath of relief and wrapped his arms around the child, looking up at Mycroft.

“Should I stay?” Mycroft asked.

John shook his head, Oliver’s face still squashed into his chest. “I think we’ll be fine.”

Mycroft nodded and retreated, pulling the door shut behind himself. After another second, Oliver pulled away and looked up at John, face serious. “Is he upstairs?”

John nodded. Oliver looked up the steps and nodded too. “I want to punch him,” he said, then started walking.

John grabbed his wrist, making him turn, and gave him a look. “Can we attempt to be civilized? When was the last time you saw him?”

Oliver gave John ‘a look’ right back. “Don’t tell me that _you_ didn’t want to punch him. I hope you punched him. And I don’t know, it’s probably been four years maybe? I don’t keep track or care. I just care that he’s a bastard.”

John knew it was his parental duty to scold Oliver for cursing, but he couldn’t find it in himself to right now. Oliver had a right to be angry, even if John wasn’t going to let him punch Sherlock.

Oliver sighed. “Can I go up there now and get this over with or are we gonna keep looking disappointedly at each other?”

John rolled his eyes and breathed a chuckle, then motioned for Oliver to walk up the stairs. “You can’t hit him though.”

Oliver whined and John flicked him in the back of the head.

As soon as he pushed the door to 221B open, Oliver scowled, his arms crossed. Sherlock still sat at the desk, but now he looked alert and watched John step into the flat behind Oliver. Nobody said anything.

Then Oliver walked forwards, and for a second John worried he _actually_ planned to punch Sherlock, but instead the boy snatched his notebook off the desk, looked Sherlock dead in the eye and said. “I hate you.”

Sherlock didn’t break eye contact with the boy as he put his notebook on the mantle and moved across the sitting room to thump onto the couch with his arms crossed. John didn’t know what to expect, and it looked like Sherlock didn’t either but was going to accept whatever came at him.

Olive spoke again, “I don’t hate you because you were absent my whole childhood, I hate you  ** _because you lied to John._** ”

John looked to Oliver, brow furrowed. Oliver only spoke in French when he didn’t realize he was doing it or if he didn’t want someone to hear what he was saying. John positively heard his name too.

Sherlock sighed and responded, “ _ **I had to.** "_

Oliver shot up from the couch, his face twisting and he shouted, “ ** _You didn’t have to fake your death!”_**

Sherlock’s calm wall cracked, and he stood up, his voice raised, “ _ **You don’t even know what you’re talking about-** ” _

Oliver cut him off and John wondered how long he should let them shout like this. If not now, it would happen later, but it was a little frustrating not knowing what they were saying.

“ _ **You don’t either!** ” _Oliver snapped, “ _ **I don’t care that you left me, you were never there anyways. I care that you left John!** ” _

Sherlock stood there for a moment, quiet, his eyes flicking all over Oliver’s face, his jaw tight. Oliver practically mickied the position, his fists clenched. John felt out of place, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave the room, desperately wanting to know what they were saying and if he should stop them.

Sherlock, teeth grit, spoke softly, “ _ **I did what I could.** ” _

Oliver shouted over him, “ _ **Well it wasn’t enough!** ” _

The fighting continued, Oliver shouting and Sherlock trying not to get worked up, the French moving past their lips so quick John couldn’t pick out the few words he did know, their speech overlapping and escalating until John decided he needed to stop them before they started throwing things.

“All right!” He shouted over them, and both heads of black curls whipped to look at him. In literally any other situation John would have laughed. “Stop. Both of you are too worked up. Sherlock, take a walk - just give us five minutes. Oliver, sit down.”

Oliver, visibly shaking with anger and John couldn’t recall a single other time Oliver had been this angry before. Oliver jabbed a finger towards Sherlock. “He’s being insufferable! He doesn’t understand what he’s done to everyone, he-!”

“Oh, _I don’t understand?_ You think I haven’t realized how much I miscalculated the effect this would have?” Sherlock interrupted. “You don’t-”

“Miscalculated? _”_ Oliver snarled. “You’re a machine! Can  ** _you even understand human emotion?!_** ”

“ _ **Of course I can!** ” _ Sherlock said back. “You haven’t a clue anything you’re talking about! You’re just a child!”

“I’m nearly sixteen,” Oliver argued. “ _ **and I’ve been here the past two years.**  _Where were you?”

Sherlock abruptly stepped back and looked away towards the windows, his hands closed into fists.

“Both of you! Stop!” John shouted again, then stepped forward and grabbed Oliver’s shoulder, pushing him back until he sat on the couch. “Sherlock, just - walk, okay? Go for a few minutes.”

Sherlock shuddered out a breath and nodded, leaving the flat in a few quick strides. John turned to look at Oliver, who slumped down and crossed his arms, still seething.

“You _have_ to make the effort, Oliver,” John said.

Oliver sat up. “What? No! He doesn’t deserve anything from us!”

John could feel his chest curling in on itself and he knelt down in front of Oliver and took his arms, pulling him forwards. He continued, quieter, “Oliver. Please, try to make this work. For me? I need this to work, with all three of us.”

Oliver eyes flicked back and forth between John’s, wide and then understanding. He swallowed and nodded. “O-okay. Okay, I’ll try.”

“Thank you,” John said, squeezing his arms, then pulling Oliver forward into a hug. He stood up after a second.

“I still don’t like him,” Oliver said.

“I know. I just… want you to try.”

Oliver nodded. “I’m going to.”

“When he comes back in a few minutes, try not to argue, even if you’re angry he’s here. I’m angry at him too, and he knows it,” John said. “But we’re going to try and make it work.”

Oliver took a deep breath and nodded again. Then he walked over to the bookshelf, picked up his sketchbook and pencils and slid to the floor near John’s arm chair, his back against the side of the unlit fireplace. John sat in his armchair and picked up his book.

A few minutes later, Sherlock came back to the flat and didn’t say anything. Oliver didn’t look up from his sketchbook. John met Sherlock’s eyes over the top of his book, as the man walked towards them and hesitantly sunk into his old arm chair, his hands in his lap and his eyes moving about the room. John continued reading his book.

The three of them couldn’t be called perfect, and John didn’t think they’d ever be anywhere near it. For now, they were halfway to “okay” and that was a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woot! Another fic finished :)
> 
> If you haven't yet, subscribe/bookmark this series (by clicking on the "Oliver Scott 'Verse" link below the tags) so you know when I post the first chapter to the next fic. I'm planning on **September 20th** , I know, I know, another hiatus. It's really only a week and a half though.
> 
> THANK YOU SO MUCH to everyone who commented, gave me kudos and bookmarked this story!! I love you all sooo much and you're the reason this series keeps going.
> 
>  
> 
> I want to know all of your predictions for the next story!! The next one is the longest and the most angst filled. Honestly... it's going to be intense. What do you think will happen?
> 
> See you guys in the next one!! <3


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